


maybe in another life;

by onekingdomonce



Series: Nikandros & Laurent [3]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, The Summer Palace, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 14:55:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekingdomonce/pseuds/onekingdomonce
Summary: Nikandros knew that it was going to be a week of torment from the moment Damen broke away from their cortege, riding down the dust filled path with all the exuberance of a man in love. Nikandros had gripped his reins hard as he watched Damen’s horse become just a speck in the distance, feeling as if the hooves pounding beneath him were stampeding against his chest.





	maybe in another life;

**Author's Note:**

> For [ @king-smaurent.](https://king-smaurent.tumblr.com)  
> This is for Cassie, who is my favorite person and my capri partner in crime. We negotiated a pining nik fic for a battlements blowjob fic (as two people should) so here is my end.

Nikandros remembered a time where the summer palace had been a kind of paradise. 

Outside the capital amongst tumbling cliffs and the open ocean, Lentos had been a rapture that wasn’t like much else, as if the kingdom of Akielos had been spun into the petals of a blossoming rose. The amount of times he had gone were finite enough that he could count them on one hand, different points of his life that were filled with the liveliness of youth and everything the humble palace had to offer. His presences had all been by the request of Damen, most of those trips including Kastor as well. Nikandros still thought of those days, sometimes.

The timing of their trips had varied, though they usually followed a series of taxing months or once, a minor scrimmage in the borders. This time, however, was notably off. The Kyroi had only recently been reappointed, and the government was still unstable enough that leaving was odd and out of turn. Nikandros had warily asked about it, and the answer immediately made him regret it.

Nikandros had attempted to reason with Damen. He argued logistics first, and when that failed he just plainly argued. What he received in return was a smile that Nikandros – who had known him for all his years – had so rarely seen on Damen, and a pit in his stomach that grew more with each second of the exchange. 

“The timing is wrong,” Nikandros tried.

“He’s waiting for me,” Damen said, and Nikandros thought the pit might become a physical thing that swallowed him whole. 

It had almost seemed like a good thing at first, despite the way Nikandros’s vision wavered red with envy. It would be a week away from distracted pauses and the starburst marked letters littering Damen’s desk that Nikandros told himself were solely political. It would be a reprieve, perhaps a chance for Nikandros to set himself straight. It all felt very sensible and comforting, until Nikandros was informed that he would be joining them.

Again Nikandros tried to be rational with Damen. He had not long ago been named Kyros of Ios, and he might reconsider leaving the capital entirely unattended, but all arguments were a lost cause. Damen wanted his retinue to be small, the least amount of people possible to be there with them, just a few men he trusted. For Damen, it was a solution. For Nikandros, it was a problem.

Nikandros knew that it was going to be a week of torment from the moment Damen broke away from their cortege, riding down the dust filled path with all the exuberance of a man in love. Nikandros had gripped his reins hard as he watched Damen’s horse become just a speck in the distance, feeling as if the hooves pounding beneath him were stampeding against his chest. 

It became immediately clear to Nikandros that a place that was once a dream was quickly becoming a nightmare. It was one thing to know - Nikandros had never been the type of man to live in a state of delusion. He had made his worries known the instant he’d begun to doubt Kastor, and he had known that trouble would be coming Damen’s way the moment he’d met the Prince of Vere. What he didn’t know was that he was in just as much trouble.

But to live in a state of awareness was far easier when Nikandros wasn’t faced with his reality at every possible turn. The passing days were gradually culminating into a collection of new memories, associations like an aphrodisiac that burned going down and then made the head feel woozy. 

It seemed as if they were everywhere, but the truth of the matter was that it was the Prince who was everywhere. Be that physically, with his back pressed against a tree bark and his hands on Damen’s cheeks, or wishfully. On the second morning of the trip Nikandros had heard the foreign, joyous sound of laughter as he’d strolled the grounds, and it was now a constant question of if he was truly hearing the unexpectedly sweet sound, or if that was just his own depravity beating like a melody. 

He was different, here. Nikandros had been given the opportunity to get to know the Prince during his time in Ios. It had been as painful has it had been rewarding, and it had forced Nikandros to see sparing sides to him that he would have missed had he not been looking closely, but those flashes were like an ocean’s span away from this man. With the luxury of seclusion and a temporary reprieve from alien eyes, it was like a layer of ice melted away and instead pooled in his eyes; gentler, lighter, a reflection of all the splendor around him.

On the fourth night at the palace, they had invited Nikandros to their shared chambers for wine. Nikandros knew refusal was futile, and when Damen mentioned his favorite vintage form Kesus and that the Prince asked after his presence, he knew there was only one answer. 

Nikandros had only seen the Prince inebriated once before. It felt like a lifetime ago, when he’d watched him drain cups of wine and griva alongside the general Makedon, holding his drink far better than expected. It hadn’t been of much interest to Nikandros, then, but he’d still taken notice of the way the circumstances had altered The Prince’s disposition in minor ways. His caustic quality wavered enough to suggest good-natured wit, and the potent mix of liquors gave him an almost friendly approach, like a serpent rearing its head amongst lions.

This was different, another unfamiliar side. The three of them went through a number of bottles together, lounged on a divan with the candles low and the balcony doors opened wide. He knew how the scene must look: a group of friends enjoying a night of indulgence, casual and relaxed, and yet Nikandros felt anything but. Each passing moment was soaked in painful alertness, wholly aware of what was quietly transpiring before him. Each long sip added to the pretty flush on the Prince’s face, each drained cup making his stare more languid. When Damen’s drunken grin became slow and lazy, the Prince’s fingers trailed higher. 

Going there was a mistake. Nikandros’ only aid was to drink more, but all that did was make his thoughts feel erratic, like this thing inside him was going to grow arms and legs and rip him in two. When he took himself in his hand that night it was rough and fast, lost in a wine fueled haze of berry stained lips and heavy lidded eyes.

The shame was the worst of it. It loomed over Nikandros like a fog, unshakable and needling. He’d felt it that night as he lay panting in bed, his chest covered in his own spend, just as he felt it that morning, alone in the gardens. His head throbbed and ached, and the bitterness in his throat was from more than just the aftertaste of alcohol. He felt weighed down by the dishonor of it all, unworthy of the trust he received from his King, his friend. 

Nikandros closed his eyes, taking in a lungful of breath. This section of the garden was wide with greenery, flowerbeds surrounding him in patterns of vibrancy. He could hear the trickle of the fountain beside him, the lapping hum of the ocean. He turned his head to look, and immediately started. 

“I -“ He’d taken a step back. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I didn’t notice you there.”

The Prince seemed just shy of amused by something. His hands were crossed behind his back, fingers loose. “No,” he said. “You seemed rather distracted.”

Nikandros felt heat creep up the back of his neck. He said nothing, and instead put all of his focus on neutralizing his expression. The Prince seemed content to stand beside him in silence, the birds and the hum of cicadas their only company. 

The Prince had taken to a more Akielon state of dress over the course of the week, to Nikandros’ equal horror and delight. Gone were the shiny boots and high-necked jackets, his clothing reduced like the removal of armor. If he was not in a chiton – gloriously short and tantalizingly revealing – he was dressed like he was now, in a thin undershirt and loose pants that cuffed at the ankles. The apples of his cheeks were bright pink from the sun; his shoulders surely sunburnt from the scorching heat. His hair was lightly tousled from the breeze, or the sweep of a hand. He looked peaceful, and young, and Nikandros wanted to push him against the nearest tree and fall to his knees for him. 

The heat spread. Nikandros cleared his throat, diverting his gaze. “Where is Damianos?”

“The baths.”

“You didn’t wish to join him?” Nikandros asked, before balking with his audacity. 

The Prince didn’t seem to mind. He had that same strange quirk to his lips. “Sometimes it’s good to wait.”

Nikandros turned forward. He felt the Prince do the same, the two of them facing where Nikandros had been looking before he’d arrived.

The statue of the late Queen was large, taller than the two of them and prominent with its glory. She faced the ocean with an outstretched arm, hard and pristine. Something in the stony faced carving reminded Nikandros of her husband.

“Had you known her?” The Prince asked unexpectedly. He’d taken a step closer, though he was not yet in touching distance. Nikandros gazed at the back of his head, and then her elegantly pointed fingers. He seemed strangely at ease, as if loitering around statues of the deceased was a familiar pastime for him. 

“I was three yours old when the Queen passed,” Nikandros said, unsurprised that the Prince didn’t know his age. “And I had not yet been to the capital. But my father had.”

The Prince looked behind his shoulder. “Really.”

“My mother spoke of her beauty often,” Nikandros said, unable to stop himself. He didn’t know why he was saying this, he never spoke of his parents, but it felt – easy. “It was said that she would paint her lips red and wear golden bracelets on both hands that entirely covered her wrists, and such became the style for women around Ios. My oldest sister had her own set commissioned when she turned thirteen.”

And then he stopped. He was talking out of turn, fumbling on about information that he had not been asked for. He looked down at the grass, and away.

“How many siblings do you have?” The Prince asked.

There was a belated pause. “Three, Your Highness.” 

“Brothers?” 

“No,” Nikandros said. _Just Damen,_ he thought. 

The Prince nodded. His eyes did something new, but they cleared before Nikandros could attempt to decipher it, or act as if he hadn’t noticed. He stood there, looking at his Prince, waiting. He had an eyelash on his cheek.

“My mother would wear her hair in a braid,” he said, looking at the Queen. “It was the Kemptian style. It became quite popular in court.”

Nikandros felt his heart throb in his chest, and the senseless inclination to cover it with a fist so it wouldn’t rip through his skin. He didn’t know why it seemed like he had just been given some inimitable gift. He wanted to reciprocate, and knew that it would mean nothing. 

Nikandros nodded, mutely, and with that the moment was severed. He could feel the Prince pulling away, his attention moving elsewhere as he looked around, removing himself from the short perimeter of the statue. Nikandros scrambled for something to do, something else to offer, and then firmly reminded himself that this was not his place.

“Your Highness,” was what he said, a dismissal for himself, a reminder of who this was. He remained standing there when the Prince eventually walked away, a determined pace for the baths, and wondered if he would notice if the statues around him crumbled to nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> [ @laurent-ofvere](http://laurent-ofvere.tumblr.com)   
> 


End file.
